Let Them Eat Cake

The other night was my mother’s birthday.

I picked up her favorite cake—or at least the cake my family considers one of the best around here. Chocolate doberge. The good stuff.

I know because I bought it. I carried it into my parents’ house. I put it in their refrigerator. And when it was time for cake, I didn’t eat any.

Now, if this were one of my old diet stories, this would be the part where I congratulated myself.

Look at me! I resisted the cake!

Except that’s not what happened. I didn’t resist anything. I didn’t want it.

And that surprised the hell out of me.

Earlier, my dad had told me they had some oyster-and-artichoke soup. It was rich and delicious, and I found myself mostly fishing out the oysters and artichokes and leaving about half the creamy broth behind.

Not because the broth was bad. Not because I had calculated exactly how many calories were floating around in there. I’d just had enough.

Then we sang Happy Birthday. My mom loved the orchids I’d brought her. We cut the cake. Everyone started eating. And I waited for it.

The food noise.

That little voice that says, You know you want some.

Nothing.

I was sitting at the table with really good chocolate cake—the kind I absolutely agree is worth eating—and I didn’t want it. I was already satisfied.

This Wasn’t Willpower

That’s the part I don’t want to get wrong. Because it would be very easy to turn this into another diet victory:

Aleta was a Good Girl and didn’t eat the cake.

No.

In fact, somebody actually said “Good girl” to me after I firmly declined a piece. That irritated me more than the cake being offered again. Because I wasn’t being good. I wasn’t being bad.

I was being a grown woman who didn’t want cake.

That’s it.

I don’t need applause for refusing dessert any more than I need punishment for eating it. And if you offer me the same chocolate doberge cake another day and I genuinely want a piece?

I hope I eat the damn cake.

 “I don’t want it” isn't the same as “I’m not allowed to have it.”

Those are not the same sentence.

One is preference.

The other is restriction.

I’ve spent enough years making food into a courtroom where every bite needs a verdict. I’m trying something different now.

Hungry?

Eat.

Satisfied?

Stop.

Want the cake?

Eat some cake.

Don’t want the cake?

Let everybody else eat it.

Your cake might not be cake.

Maybe it’s chips. French fries. Bread. Ice cream. Something you’ve spent years labeling bad, forbidden, cheating, or something I can’t control myself around.

I’m beginning to wonder what happens when we stop giving food quite so much power. Not by proving we can resist it. But by giving ourselves enough permission to notice what we actually want.

Sometimes the answer might be cake. Tonight, for me, it was oyster-and-artichoke soup. And apparently that’s where I am on the Long Road now.

Sitting at a birthday table.

Not dieting.

Not cheating.

Not resisting.

Not earning anything.

Just listening to myself.

Let them eat cake.

I already had what I wanted.

I don’t want to be good at food anymore. I want to be free around it.